Jack
by Raiden616
Summary: A short prologue to the events of Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater.
1. Prologue

_**This was originally going to be a full novelisation as writing practice, but I decided against it in the end. It seemed a shame to let what I'd done go to waste though - so enjoy.**_

_**As the game is somewhat in the style of a classic Bond movie, I tried to write it in the style of Casino Royale.  
**_

* * *

_After the end of World War Two, the world was split into two._

_This marked the beginning of an era called the Cold War. _

**Prologue **

"Boss," he began, the words slicing through her stomach like a knife. "Are you going to shoot me?"

Her hands trembled for the first time in years. The cold metal of the gun's grip was soaked in her hot sweat, her upper arm beginning to ache from the weapon's weight. The gun was terrific; as much a work of art as a firearm could ever be. Every curve was polished to a mirror sheen, the graciously sculpted and engraved barrel containing holding the most advanced hand-held weapon system ever devised.

Just mils from the trigger, her index finger hovered gracefully underneath, and through the sight she could see the face of her target staring at her. He did not blink, he did not look away. He simply stared, and she cursed him for making this so hard.

"I..." The Boss closed her eyes. She never took her eyes off a target. "I can't." Giving in to the pain, she dropped her arm, and the gun fell to her side. She could no longer distinguish between what was sweat and what was tears.

"You have to..."

She screamed at deafening volume, determined to drown out the voice of the man in front of her, like a child avoiding orders from her parents. She ripped the trigger on the gun and bullets began streaming from the tiny barrel, hitting the mud and dirt below her, borrowing themselves deep within. The first bullets ever fired from the gun, and they were fired straight at the ground.

Inevitably, the firing stopped and her ears were met by a quite click as the now untouched trigger sprung back into place. Her scream stopped almost immediately afterwards.

"Boss..." he repeated, but she still refused to look at him. "Boss, you have to shoot me. You need to shoot me. You want to finish your mission don't you?"

She opened her eyes and saw him clearly for the first time. There was even no longer any water between, for it had, at that moment, stopped raining. His hair was neat and slicked back from the water, the raindrops on his skin sparkling like a million sequins. His clear raincoat was covered with black dirt. A line of dark blood trailed from his left eye.

"Don't be sad, Boss. We'll meet again."

The Boss turned away. There was a sound like thunder.

She cried, and for the first time, felt the sorrow. "The spirit of the warrior ... will always be with you."


	2. Hot Line

**1 / HOT LINE **

_Two years later. _

The President of the United States paced back and forth, curving slightly as the wall of the oval office slipped past him with every step.

The Commander-in-Chief removed his glasses and sucked lightly on the end. The butterflies in the bottom of his stomach which he had long since overcome were beginning to stir again. Something was wrong.

It was not often he was awake at this time at night. There was not a single spot of light beyond the window, even the stars seemingly asleep. The only sign of life outside of the room was the continuous and irritating chirp of countless crickets, which had never sounded so loud.

As he paced, he stopped every few seconds to check the blood red telephone placed cautiously on the end of the desk, as if expecting it to spring to life at any moment.

Checking his watch, he grunted at the time. From what he could see by the small desk lamp across the room, it was after three o'clock in the morning. He was waiting for a very important phone call, and every second it did not come his head throbbed more and more, his sweat-filled suit that he had not changed out of in at least 48 hours becoming more and more unbearable, the shaking of hands becoming more and more violent.

Suddenly he could not cope any longer. He had to so something to take his mind off of the wait. Eyeing a newspaper placed on a shelf, he immediately paced towards it and snatched it from its dust-covered hiding place. He had already read it at least half a dozen times that day, but one more could not hurt.

At least that was what he thought. A few moments of peaceful reading passed as he lounged in his desk chair, desperately trying to relax but failing. Several pages in, however, his heart suddenly sank as he saw the headline.

It had been almost a year since the previous President had been assassinated, and the press were still going on about it. Of course, with the looming presence of the next Presidential election coinciding with his plans to launch an investigation into the assassination, they could not exactly be blamed.

As much as we hate to admit it, the man ruling our country is not the one we elected to do so. One cannot help but wonder if we had seen that fateful day coming, would the previous Presidential election have turned out the same way? Of course, in asking this, we must ask ourselves an even deeper question: Should we have seen that fateful day coming? No one can satisfy everyone, but it seems that if we want our President to do a half-decent job, we have to be prepared for someone to disapprove. The only problem is that its usually a gun-wielding psychopath that disapproves.

It may be that the lives of everyone on that planet was shaken by that day, as for that moment the entire country was plunged to darkness, a darkness which still lingers today. That being said, can we expect a similar fate from our current President? This reporter thinks it highly unlikely. Nevertheless, many, me included, believe that he will have many more a chance to show his true colors. Yes, this is an election prediction, but the current climate puts his opponents in a very tricky situation; namely, running against the policies of a slain man.

He turned the last two paragraphs of the article over in his mind. He had read it several times that day already, but not once had it sunk in like it had this time. ...A darkness that still lingers today. The phrase made his pulse quicken, but the sad thing was, that was perfectly true. Even the weather seemed to have been dismal the whole time he had been in office.

The President flicked to the next page of the newspaper, but seeing what a tough job it would be to sort through the numerous remaining criticisms he had yet to read this sitting, he gave up and dropped the paper back onto his desk. And it was only then, in the moment that his mind had finally been preoccupied, did he notice a small blinking red light.

The phone had been ringing for God knows how long.

A sudden rush of adrenaline bursting through him, he slammed his hand onto a button next to the phone, alerting the one person in the building, other than him, who was still awake. As prepared as he would ever be, he picked up the phone.

He brought his hand closer to his face.

He placed the phone to his ear.

The voice was not as he had expected.

"President Lyndon Jackson." It was not a question. The caller knew who had called. The voice was harsh and deep, a strong Russian accent making certain the identity of the caller, as if it needed confirming.

"Premier Nikita Khrushchev," President Jackson replied into the phone. "How can I help you?" He already knew the answer to that question.

Khrushchev got right to the point. "Two days ago, our officials spotted a U-2 spy plane flying over our airspace. Can I ask what it was doing there?"

The door to the oval office opened without knocking, and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency entered, his face devoid of any expression. He and Jackson had practised the President's responses an untold number of times, and he acknowledged and suppressed the Director's concern with a small, but hardly genuine, smile.

"Mr. Chairman, I am afraid I haven't the slightest idea as to what plane you are talking about." The director nodded. "There have been many of our planes flying close to your airspace, but they are all within our agreed flight paths."

"Then would you care to explain why an aircraft, one not unlike the U-2 spy plane that photographed our the Nuclear Weapons Disposal Facility on Cuba two years ago, was at least thirty miles OFF of these agreed flight paths?"

"I'm afraid," Jackson began, breathing deeply to steady his nerves, "that I am completely unaware of any plane straying from our agreed flight paths. If one has done so, then it was either entirely accidental or was flown without my slightest authorisation."

"I wish I could believe that, but the plane in question did not just deviate from the agreed path. Have you heard of 'Groznyj Grad'?" There was silence as the President looked at a bewildered Director for an answer, but none came. "Okay, we'll try a smaller scale. What about 'OKB-754'?"

"The second one does not ring any bells, but I think I recall the name 'Groznyj Grad'." The President's pulse was quickening again.

"So your spy plane passing over them both was a mere coincidence? Regardless of what you say, I am sure you are aware that Groznyj Grad in one of our most top secret military bases, and the latter is one of our main Design Bureaus. Needless to say, this certainly arouses suspicion, don't you agree?"

"I would have to agree yes, but I maintain that whatever you spotted was something I am completely unaware of."

"'Whatever you spotted'?!" The voice of the Soviet Premier grew frighteningly loud. "Do not make me out to be stupid, Mr. President. This was merely an enquiry, and we have no need for retaliation. What concerns me more is that your plane came very close to the location of one of our most esteemed scientists, one with which I am sure you Americans are very well acquainted. He has been in and out of your country quite often in the past few years."

President Jackson knew that they did not have no need for retaliation, but no authority for retaliation. Nevertheless, he had to continue with the subject at hand. "Are you referring to Sokolov?"

"Exactly. Nikolai Stephanovich Sokolov is one of our most esteemed scientists, and quite a problem for us to keep our hands on. I must warn you now, Mr. President. Whether the aircraft that was spotted was or was not a spy plane is irrelevant. If your government is planning any kind of operation to retrieve Sokolov, do not allow it to proceed. If your country even comes close to Sokolov once more, it could spark an incident of unseen proportions. Do I make myself clear?"

The President's emotions were a mix of satisfaction and worry. The Director, who could hear every word being said, lowered his spread right hand towards the desk, signalling for him to end the call.

"Understood, Mr. Chairman."

He replaced the phone onto its holder, sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Suddenly, all of his lost exhaustion caught up with him, and he had to stand up to stop himself falling asleep. Turning to face the Director, he spoke before pacing out of the office without another word.

"Mr. Director. Tell Zero..." he hesitated, contemplating his next words carefully, for they could decide the fate of the world. "Tell Major Zero the mission will be a virtuous one."

The Director nodded to a now empty room. "Virtuous. Got it."


	3. The Secret Agent

**2 / THE SECRET AGENT **

The smell of smoke and sweat in the lounge could be quite nauseating even at the best of times.

Jack stubbed the wet, chewed up butt of his cigar out in the ash tray he had personally asked for. He could feel his body digesting the final ounces of the night's nicotine as he checked the clock on the wall across from him. It was almost midnight.

In that instant, he felt tired. It was not late, but he always knew when he was tired and never failed to act on it. The staleness and grogginess that one felt after little sleep was unacceptable for him, it often resulting in lapses of concentration, lapses of concentration often resulting in errors in judgement, errors in judgement often resulting in mistake. Someone in Jack's profession could never afford mistakes.

Exhaling a thin line of smoke, the man rose slowly to his feet, gulping down the last few drops of his alcoholic beverage. He slid the empty glass back onto the bar as he passed it on his way to the door. Collecting the glass almost immediately, the bartender raised it and smiled, remarking "This is good, isn't it?"

Jack grunted and nodded without pausing. He was too tired for friendly conversation. He shoved open the wooden doors with the palm of his hand. On the other side, the smell ceased, the air was clear and the noise level had finally lowered. The glamorous beige hallway he was in stretched for what looked like miles past doors, windows and numerous small but precious displays not valuable enough to be under tighter security.

Passing these displays, he stopped to admire the one closest to him. The particular display was one that always took his fancy. It was a large, glass box encasing three shelves, each adorned with a range of solid gold artefacts. The artefacts ranged through all shapes and sizes, from plates to cups to even guns, and at the top, the centrepiece of the display, was a large gold snake. The snake was twisted into the most bizarre shape, so much, Jack always prided himself on knowing, that if it were laid out flat it would be unrealistically long. Nevertheless, it was still a breathtaking display.

The three locks on the cabinet were all tightly shut, a tiny iron padlock hanging from each one. Two white boxes that were just visible over the top of the cabinet glowed a subtle red, and Jack had since figured out that they were the source of a number of invisible laser beams protecting the cabinet's contents, as if that could not be assumed. It was not a model he was personally familiar with, but effective regardless.

Just because they were not under as tight security as other displays, it did not mean they were unprotected. Far from it, in fact. The hallway was lined with security cameras in perfect pattern, but an extra one was littered here and there, most notably about displays such as this one. At least four must have a clear view of him, and a couple more would at least be able to see the case. There would be no time to unlock the padlocks, key or no key, before someone realised what you were doing.

The even thought of smashing the glass was preposterous. Even if one somehow disabled the laser beams and avoided an immediate alarm, there was no dealing with the surveillance cameras. Within seconds the entire building would be on red alert, and to somehow get out of the building through the passages and doors would be impossible. The only chance a thief would have would be through the window, just a few feet away. But even then he was bound to be seen. The windows overlooked a courtyard to so large the roads beyond were hardly visible, patrolled day and night by a security guard on every path.

An image directly below the snake, however, took Jack's mind off of the problem. His own reflection was strongly highlighted against the solid black back wall of the display, and the person he saw staring back at him was a stranger. The tee-shirt and combat trousers he wore were both stained a number of different colours and were littered with holes. His brown hair was wild and untamed, the fringe pasted to his forehead by dried sweat, which felt even worse under his unshaven stubble. Two horrifyingly large bags hung under his eyes, which were both tinged with red, making his face look at least a decade older than he was.

The image was horrible, but he was mesmerised for at least a minute. When he was finally able to look away he took one last look at the golden snake before immediately pacing off, continuing his journey. As for robbing the display, this idea did not concern him and he had no intention to do so. However, he did quickly reflect that it would take at least five men: two manning the entrances to the hallway, and three to follow through the courtyard. The men on the entrances would escape to through the lesser used passages in civilian clothing, whilst a car would have to be waiting outside the courtyard. The hedge maze, which was just round the corner, would be a good bet for a hiding place, though they would have to be prepared to kill at least few employees on their way.

After at several minutes of walking, the hallway widened into a fantastically decorated lobby. Three sets of double doors on the far wall were bustling with Russian businessmen and arriving home from very late nights at the office or some executive ball. Each door was adorned with plant life and surrounded by white curtains. The room was brightly lit by several chandeliers which cast patterns on the wooden floor, hanging from a ceiling unbroken but for a large spiral staircase just yards away from him. Under the staircase, a couple of golden trolleys, each filled with red and brown suitcases, had been casually left. Jack could see the large glass doors to the still full hotel restaurant on the left wall, closed and manned by two guards, next to which a small raise in the floor acted as a mini-stage and highlighted a currently untouched piano.

Despite looking remarkably out of place in his outfit, and feeling the gaze of suit-clad businessmen as he went, he strolled casually over the long front desk on the right wall. The receptionist greeted him with a smile.

"Good evening, Sir," the receptionist said, his Russian accent still striking after so many weeks. "How can I help you."

"Good evening," Jack replied, eyeing a brown package under the receptionist's arm. "Is that for me?"

The receptionist nodded at his forwardness and handed over the package, returning immediately to his work.

Jack walked past the spiral staircase to one of three elevators in the corner. One was already open and empty when he got there and so he took that one to the fourteenth floor. In the elevator he ripped open the end of the package, sliding its contents out into his palm.

He admired the small box of cuban cigars for a moment or two, before turning it over to read the note pinned to the back. He laughed when he read it.

For those lonely nights.

-O.

The elevator doors opened onto a corridor adorned with lamps lining each wall, at least three between every door. The only window was at the far end where the path forked, but he would not be walking that far. In fact, after only a few seconds of walking he stopped.

The numbers on the door read '475'.

He hesitated to open the door, groaning to himself as he checked around him for any other signs of life. There were none. With one fingernail he broke the seal on the cigar box, but removed not a cigar, but a single match laid curiously inside atop several still sealed bunches of cigars. He struck the match on the side of the box and it hissed alight, before extinguishing itself almost immediately.

The door in front of him opened as if by some supernatural force. As it opened fully, however, the force became apparent. Half a dozen men were standing in his room, all but one dressed in identical black suits with radios, looking extremely professional. The odd one out he knew; dressed in his black CIA uniform, his face a mix of happiness and anxiety and the scar on his cheek and white hair so familiar.

"'O', I presume?"

Major Zero smiled. "Obviously." Upon hearing the English accent he had not heard in months, Jack rushed to Zero and embraced him in a hug. After a moment of bewilderment, his commander returned the hug before they separated. "It's good to see you to, Jack."

Jack stepped back, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed, but quickly shook himself out of it. "Where have you been all this time, Major?"

"Taking care of things. I've got some important news."

Jack sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. A couple of the men shifted slightly so as not to lose full sight of him. Pouring a glass of bourbon from a bottle on the table, he asked, "What kind of news."

"From the CIA." Zero stepped off of the raised floor he had been standing on, landing on the rug with a slight thud. The men shifted again. Jack held a glass to Zero as if to offer him a drink, but he waved it away with his hand.

Jack watched as Zero made his way to the other side of the room and flicked a dial on a radio he was sure had not been there before. Some obscure Russian must came on the air, and Zero flashed him an expression as if to say "never can be too careful". He began to pace the room. "From the Director himself, as a matter of fact. The military has finally given us the green light for the 'Virtuous mission'."

"'Virtual' mission?"

"No 'virtuous' mission. The future of the FOX unit depends on it. If it succeeds, we will be officially organised."

It was only now that Jack noticed that all the suited guards were wearing radios in both ears. Apparently, this information was top secret even for them. In the synthetic light, he also spotted the bulge at the chest of each of their jackets.

"Virtuous mission?" he continued, taking a sip of the bourbon. "Sounds like some kind of initiation ritual."

"Don't get cocky; this isn't a training op."

"Right, so what exactly is this wonderful mission?"

Zero stopped pacing and approached Jack, producing some photos from the inside of his jacket. From a distance, Jack could see they were clearly military photos. "Two years ago," he began, "a certain Soviet scientist requested asylum in the west through one our moles. You may remember him."

Amongst the photos was an ID document which caught Jack's eye. He read the name at the top aloud, struggling to pronounce it. "Nikolai Stepanovich Sokolov." He looked at Zero but Zero merely returned the stare. "Is that him?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is he that famous rocket scientist?" If his memory served him correctly, he had last heard the name Sokolov in a book about space travel. He remembered it well, because it had completely dismissed the idea as pure science fiction.

"The very same." Zero pulled a photo from the back of the pile and dropped it on the top for Jack to examine. "He's also head of the OKB-754 Design Bureau; that's a satellite photo taken a few days ago by a U-2 Spy Plane. It's one of the Soviet Union's top-secret weapons research facilities. In fact it's one of the mostly closely held secrets the Soviets have. Apart from the President of the United States... the CIA Director, I and now you are the only three people in the country who know of this place's existence."

Jack breathed loudly. "Pretty heavy stuff, then?"

"Certainly. Anyway, as you may remember, Sokolov became one of the world's most famous rocket scientists following the launch of the A1. You probably know it as the Vostok Rocket that carried Yuri Gagarin into space three years ago."

"The Earth was blue... but there was no God." He quoted the phrase almost involuntarily, but it seemed to impress Zero.

"Well spoken, Jack. After Gagarin's flight, Sokolov left rocket development to become the head of the newly established OKB-754."

"From a lowly technician to head of a Design Bureau. That's quite a success story. So why did he want to defect?"

"It seemed he had become afraid of his own creations." Zero took a seat across from him, and Jack could actually see his eyes cloud over as he began to reminisce. "Call it a crisis of conscience.

"One of Sokolov's conditions was that his family was also taken safely to the west. I conducted the operation, and remember like it was yesterday. We used a mole to get his family out first, and then succeeded in sneaking Sokolov over the Berlin wall. The security on the Eastern side was still full of holes back then. We got Sokolov over in one piece but the whole ordeal had left him exhausted, and we checked him into a hospital in West Berlin." Jack took another sip of bourbon and leant forward, listening intently. "It took us over 2 weeks and over 600 miles to get Sokolov to Berlin from the Soviet Union. Of course, it was only a week later we had something bigger on our hands."

He knew what Zero was talking about. "The Cuban Missile Crisis." It was not a question.

"Exactly," confirmed Zero. "October 16th, 1962. President Kennedy had received word that the Soviet Union had placed missiles in Cuba. At first, Kennedy placed a blockade, but eventually a compromise was reached. On October 28th, the Soviets agreed to remove their missiles from Cuba... with conditions, of course."

"You mean the deal where the US agreed to remove its IRBMs from Turkey?"

Zero's mouth curled into a smile. "Yes and no. You're memory serves you well but your information was wrong. The IRBMs in Turkey were merely a cover story fed to the public and other agencies; they were obsolete, served no strategic use, and we were going to get rid of them anyway. They just happened to be there, and the US government had found its perfect scapegoat."

Jack was not amused. "So what happened? What did the Russians really want?"

"Sokolov." As if Jack had not seen that coming. "They wanted Sokolov."

"You mean the Soviets pulled out of Cuba just to get their hands on Sokolov?" Zero nodded. "What the hell was he working on?"

"At the time we had no idea." Zero adjusted something on the radio, and the music, which was now some classical composition, became louder. "We were running out of time, and it was either hand over Sokolov or risk full scale nuclear war. In the end, we had no choice. Sokolov hadn't even been discharged from the hospital, and he was sent back to the Soviets. He kept screaming 'Save me', 'Save me'."

Jack gulped back the last few drops of bourbon, trying to avoid picturing the painful situation. Zero spoke as if he had been there personally, but, knowing him, he probably had been. "Then," Zero continued, "a month ago we received some information from one of our moles."

"About Sokolov?" Jack dumped the photos and documents on the table and lounged back in the chair, crossing his legs.

"Yes. He was taken back to the research facility and forced to continue working on the weapon under KGB supervision. What's more its on the verge of completion."

"So what was this mysterious weapon?" Jack probed his mind for possibilities. "Something to do with space rockets?"

"No, missiles."

"Same technology."

"I guess you're right. It's some kind of nuclear device."

The idea of a nuclear weapon in Russia did not surprise him. With the current political climate, so-called 'doomsday weapons' were popping up at at least three per major state, but he did not know whether what Sokolov was working on was real or whether it was just another rumour. Neither would have surprised him. The recent rumours of frequent nuclear tests at Semipalatinsk may have finally had an explanation.

"Is Sokolov still in the facility?"

"No." Zero produced a final photo from his jacket and Jack examined it. It was another satellite photo, but this time on a much larger scale. It was clearly a military base, but looked to be the size of a large town or a small city. He had never seen a military complex this large before, but he guessed he would be seeing it a lot more in the time to come. Near the bottom of the photo, a tiny white circle had been digitally inserted into the photo. It surrounded a small isolated building surrounded by cliffs and canyons, completely cut off from the rest of the complex. The map showed only one obvious access point: namely a small wooden bridge, so thin it could barely be made out in the photo. He would not have noticed it if someone had not taken a white pen and marked it with a word he did not recognise, presumably his name.

DOLINOVODNO

"Our intelligence shows," Zero explained, "that Sokolov has been moved to a factory in 'Tselinoyarsk'." Jack had never heard the name before, and the major apparently sensed this. "It's a small place in the mountains about 3 miles west of OKB-754. They moved him there after the spy plane that took these photos aroused suspicion from the Soviet government, but it's our best chance to get him out. This mission would never have been possible if Sokolov was still in the research facility. This is our last chance, Jack."

The secret agent smiled and nodded. It was their last chance. He knew that, Zero knew that, and, judging by Sokolov's timing, he must have known that, too.

*

"Do we have a signal?" Adam queried into his radio as he brushed away the dense undergrowth. "It should be coming in about now."

"Affirmative," the radio answered. Adam caught his trousers on a thorn, tearing them slightly. "The radar picked up an unidentified object about ten minutes ago. It's closing in from the north-east."

He carefully removed the fabric from the thorn. "Ah, the power of information. I can't imagine how it feels to be as well informed as you."

The voice from the radio grunted in a deep laugh that made the radio vibrate. It was the voice of someone twice his size, with an ego to boot.

"Perhaps you will one day. We have a good source."

Adam stepped cautiously over a fallen tree. "Oh, yes, how is our new comrade?"

"A soldier as respected as that you should refer to by name."

"Sorry, Colonel Volgin," Adam apologised. Volgin grunted in acknowledgement. "So when do I get to meet The Joy?"

"When the time is right, you know that." Volgin's voice carried a strong mix of legitimate authority and arrogance. "Anyway, you must pay attention to the matter at hand. Are you at Rassvet yet?"

"I should have told you, Colonel. I took a little detour."

"What kind of detour?"

"Over the border. Kazakhstan."

The admission was not one of admiration. "What?! Why on Earth would you go that far? You're jeopardising the mission!"

"Don't worry, Colonel." He motioned in a "calm down" hand signal, but quickly remembered that Volgin could not see him. "There's a little gift waiting for me just a few hundred yards from here. I'll get to Rassvet in time."

"Listen," the voice continued in a most demanding tone. "You do what I say, and I say you have to get Sokolov out of the factory before that rookie gets there!" Adam's confidence did not shake. "Just be lucky I gave you a few soldiers to help you out if you need it."

"Every little helps Colonel. I've gotta go, I'll be seeing you." Adam ignored Volgin's cries of Adam's name as he deactivated the radio. Pushing away the last few tendrils he stepped out into a clearing.

Without hesitation, he swung his leg over the seat and landed on the motorcycle. The key was already in the ignition. The bike revved like a wild beast and he sped off into the jungle.


End file.
